Dear Tom,

I can't tell you how strange it is to be writing that phrase again. I swore to myself I never would, but here I am once more. At least I know that you won't be writing back this time.

So guess what? I married Harry. All those times you told me that yes, one day he might look at me as more than just his best friend's little sister...well, you were right. That's maybe the weirdest thing to come out of all of this – the dating advice I received from Lord Voldemort was actually quite good. (Of course, I realise now that your encouraging me to speak to him, to get to know him, to spend more time with him was because, you know, you wanted to kill him, but it was still good advice, and it worked.)

Bloody hell, as Ron would say.

You know, you never scared me as Lord Voldemort or the Dark Lord or You Know Who or any of that. That's not just Gryffindor foolishness – it's true. Oh, your followers scared me (Bellatrix Lestrange has given me more sleepless nights than anyone I've ever met, except perhaps Fenrir Greyback), but Lord Voldemort didn't. You were just a caricature, a pantomime villain. You were so evil, with no redeeming features that it was easy to believe you'd just been made up, and I think that's how I stopped myself from going half mad with worry those few years – by just refusing to allow myself to get scared.

I could do this, you know, because I'd met someone far, far worse than Lord Voldemort – Tom Riddle. Oh, I know that you would protest that you were the same person, but you weren't. Voldemort had no redeeming features, but Tom Riddle? He had plenty.

You listened to me, and you were my friend. When I was at my most vulnerable, when I felt worthless and ignored and like no one would ever want to get to know me...you did. You were nice to me. Until I realised that it was you who was making me go mad, making me forget vast portions of my day, it was you who kept me going. Writing in that diary helped to keep me sane – or so I thought. When I began to realise that maybe, writing to someone who was writing back in a way I couldn't understand was not such a good idea, I convinced myself, at first, that I was just being silly.

Tom wouldn't do that, I thought. Tom's my friend. He wouldn't hurt me, or make me hurt other people. No.

I remember, just before Christmas of that year, passing through the Trophy Room at Hogwarts. I think I was on my way to dinner, or something, when a photograph caught my eye. It was of the school teachers and Prefects, from the year you were Head Boy. Everyone who was in the photograph was neatly labelled underneath, though I could not tell you, even now, who they were. I only had eyes for you – and Merlin, were you handsome. Even at the tender age of eleven, my breath was taken away by the beautiful Tom Riddle.

I think I fell in love with you, a bit.

And that is why you scare me so, Tom Riddle. You are capable of producing these feelings inside me, these feelings of love and friendship and Merlin only knows what else. For years, you still had a hold on me. Every time I met someone new who was nice to me, who wanted to be my friend or my boyfriend, I questioned their motives. I was guarded, careful not to let anyone in because the last person I'd allowed to be my friend had broken my trust - broken me - in such an awful, awful way...

But I got over it, in the end. I got over you. And I just wanted to write and tell you this (even though Harry explained all about the Horcruxes, and I know that you will never be able to read anything anyone writes again) because I want you to know that, despite what I used to write, the promises in ink and blood I used to make, I never will be 'yours' again.

Ginny Potter.

A/N: For the Snakes and Ladders challenge and the 100 Characters Competition with Tom Riddle and prompt #17, Ink. None of this is mine, and I'd appreciate a review if you have the time!